


A Step Into Tomorrow

by bibliomaniac



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Groundhog Day (1993) Fusion, Getting Together, Groundhog Day, M/M, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 15:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16915185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliomaniac/pseuds/bibliomaniac
Summary: Connor has gone through 364 instances of December 24th, 2038, and has given up hope on ever getting to the day after. Today might be the day that changes.((aka a groundhog day au oneshot. hank and connor are ridiculously schmoopy and then get together))





	A Step Into Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fishydwarrows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishydwarrows/gifts).



> this triples as: blackmail, bribery, and a thank-you for future christmas card 2 fish. a groundhog day au was requested and delivered EXCEPT I ALSO MADE IT WINTERY AND SEASONAL BC I COULD
> 
> cws for this include: unreality warning, time loop, mentions of depression and hopelessness, brief references to past implied suicide (that doesn't last), PDA

It is seven A.M. on December twenty-fourth of the year 2038. This is not surprising to Connor. He is aware of the time and date always, after all, which is why he is also aware that it is the three hundred and sixty-fourth day that it has been December twenty-fourth of the year 2038.

Tomorrow, not that the word has much meaning anymore, will make it a full year since he entered this loop. He began to give up hope of getting to Christmas ninety-five Christmas Eves ago, which is unfortunate, because he really was looking forward to giving Hank his gift. He had tried giving it to him early three times. Hank had rebuffed his efforts each time.

Oh, well. It's hardly the most pressing of his concerns, anyway, just a light out of reach, and that too is something he is now accustomed to.

"Morning, Connor," says Hank two hours later, like he has for the three hundred and sixty-four days prior. "Jesus, you're up early. Heard you banging around in here and it woke me up."

He hadn't been banging around. He had been sitting on the couch contemplating quietly. But this dialogue does not change, unmalleable enough outside of extreme circumstance that Connor suspects by now it might be an excuse. (Those extreme circumstances include: Connor's early attempt at cooking breakfast for Hank that resulted in smoke—the acrid smell woke Hank up early; the following attempt, before which Connor replaced the batteries in the fire alarm for safety, and it went off; the attempt that turned out picture-perfect just by nature of having done it seventy-nine times in a row, after which Hank ran out of his room worried when he heard the sound of Connor slowly hitting his head against the wall.

Banging around, if you will. He had found it amusing in a distant way at the time. Hank had found it less amusing in any kind of way and spent some time yelling at him, voice raising higher in his concern, hands on his shoulders. Connor hadn't even been able to appreciate the sensation.

It had ended up being one of the bad days for Hank, and though Connor cannot appreciate many things in this loop, he can at least appreciate that after those bad days, Hank still comes out of the room the following morning.)

"Apologies, Hank," Connor says. He had been 'Lieutenant' for one hundred and eighty-eight days before Connor gave in to his daily requests to not call him by his title. Hank's brief expression of bemusement at what to him appears a sudden change had been amusing at first. "You can go back to sleep if you like."

"Nah, I'll stay up with you. First Christmas Eve, you gotta be excited, yeah?"

No, on multiple counts, but Hank has never responded well to Connor's attempts to explain his situation. "Did you stay up late watching Groundhog Day or something?" he asks, and, "This isn't fucking funny, Connor, you're not being _fucking_  funny right now." He had stopped attempting to explain after the first time it provoked a bad day.

Hank does not like feeling as though he is being lied to. He does not like feeling like his trust has been breached. Connor feels like he knows him fairly well after three hundred and sixty-four days, even the ones that go bad, but this was never a surprise.

Connor just smiles at him instead, small and sadder than he really intended, and Hank's eyebrows crease before he walks slowly over to the couch to sit down next to Connor. "Connor, uh—buddy, what's wrong?"

It would be nice if he could tell him. Have someone else with him, if only for a day, so he didn't have to feel so alone in all this. Even on the days where he's gone other places—to Jericho, to apologize to Markus and Simon and North and Josh, to apologize to everyone; to the city to walk through museums and parks; to the edges of the water to stare into it and hope it tells him something—no matter how many people he's around, he always feels alone. He's fairly certain he's the only one going through this, whatever it is. Supernatural or code or some kind of glitch experienced as he's dying somewhere else. He's thought about it all.

But at the end of the day, or at the end of three hundred sixty-four days, he still feels _least_  lonely with Hank.

This has not been surprising for forty-six days. Forty-six days ago is when he finally conceded that he is in love with Hank. Hank, who always tries to make him feel better, who gave him a home and companionship, who is kind and good even when life is not kind and good to him. Hank, who Connor suspects he would have always gravitated towards even if it weren't for this.

And Hank, who from his own perspective has only known Connor for approximately a month and a half, and who does not love him. He had spent some time researching how long it takes for a human to fall in love. The individuals claiming it happened quickly are so frequently met with derision. Not something that happens outside of budget holiday films and Disney movies.

It is just one more thing out of reach, and he is fine with it.

Mostly he is fine with it.

"Connor?" Hank prompts again, starting to sound a bit worried, which won't do.

"Sorry. I was just thinking. About..." He casts in his mind for something that he could have been thinking about that is not the truth but does not sound like it is not the truth. Lying is not one of the skills he has picked up in three hundred and sixty-four days. He has learned how to cook many things and how to play the guitar and how to juggle, but he has not learned how to lie. "About how...sometimes...no matter what you do, you just feel stuck."

It is close enough to the truth he hopes it will not sound otherwise. Hank nods slowly as he processes the statement. "Shit, Connor. Is that how you've been feeling?"

"Yes." Absolutely. Not subjectively, but Hank doesn't need to know that.

"I guess that's understandable. You went through so much shit right away, and then—" His lips purse, and he looks away a little, attempting to hide a frown. "And then after all that action you just ended up...here. With me, I mean, with an old—"

Oh, damn. "No," Connor interrupts immediately, hand shooting out to cover Hank's before he can even think too much about it, even when Hank looks down at it with something like astonishment. "No, that's not what I mean. I'm not—disappointed, being here with you, Hank. Not now, not ever."

And he means it, too. If this goes on for eternity, he'd still always want to be here with Hank.

"I just mean—that it feels like I can't move forward, sometimes, like there's something me holding back from—like that things are good, but they could be better if I took a step. That's all."

Hank looks at his hand again, then up at him, then away once more. "Uh. Yeah. Guess I—yeah. Guess I kinda know what that feels like."

"Yeah," Connor says, still feeling vaguely as though he's made some kind of misstep, leaving his foot poised above empty space and not knowing what happens when it comes down.

"Maybe you just need a change of pace," Hank suggests after a few fraught moments. "Like, uh—I don't know. We could do something."

Connor blinks at him, but Hank still isn't looking his way. "Something?"

"Yeah, you know, there's all of these holiday activities this time of year. And, I mean. Wouldn't hurt to get out of the house."

"Activities," Connor echoes, head tilting. "Do you have an activity in mind?"

"I don't know! Like—fuck, uh, there's the Holiday Market, and ice skating, and kids can visit Santa and shit—" His face shadows, but he continues. "Just, you know. Cheesy holiday stuff."

"You're really selling it," Connor teases gently, and when Hank turns to glare at him, he smiles at him. "But I'd love to go with you. As long as you're all right with it?"

"Wouldn't have said anything otherwise," he grumbles. "Just—let me get ready. I can lend you a coat."

"I don't feel the cold, Hank."

"I can lend you a coat," he repeats, rolling his eyes and getting up with a crack. "It's winter, Connor, might as well just go along with it."

So he does—go along with it, that is. Hank has never offered to do this with him before, though he believes he's seen some of these events in passing, at least. They take a taxi out to the city center because Hank doesn't want to deal with parking the day before Christmas, and then they walk around to see the pop-up shops selling ornaments and handmade chocolate and other things like that. Connor can't drink the hot chocolate they're selling at one of the booths, but he insists Hank get some anyway when he sees him staring longingly.

"It's winter, Hank," he says, grinning when Hank's nose wrinkles irritably. "Might as well just go along with it."

"God, what are you, a voice recorder?" he mumbles, but gets some hot chocolate. Connor thinks it's cute how he blows on it before sipping daintily at it, how the steam rolls up lazily, striking against the pink tip of his nose.

They walk a while longer along the city streets until they come a few blocks away to an ice skating rink. Connor looks at Hank.

"Look—"

"This was on your list of holiday activities. Cheesy holiday stuff, Hank."

"Yeah, but—"

"It's my first Christmas Eve, as you pointed out," Connor says, which is both untrue and a dirty trick, but it works; Hank grumbles and goes to rent some ice skates for them both, and they step onto the ice together.

Connor takes a few moments to calibrate his movement to the new medium while Hank, clutching onto the rails next to him, says, "So—you just need to take, uh, baby steps at first, like to get used to it—"

Connor skates in a circle around him, nodding thoughtfully. "Right."

"God, of _course._  Fucking show-off androids—" He takes a step and wobbles dangerously. Connor's hand shoots out to his arm to steady him. "I'm fine."

"Are you?"

Hank flushes in a way Connor's come to love, flooding patchily up his neck and up to his ears. "Yes!"

As if to prove it, he takes a few other wobbily steps forward, but loses his balance. His arms pinwheel and he starts to yell until Connor catches him again. Hank looks up at him, eyes wide.

"Maybe we can just hold onto each other for a bit," Connor says, which is both practical and very selfish of him. "It is my first time ice skating, after all."

"You're a dick sometimes," Hank mutters, but the flush is still on his neck, and he lets Connor hold him up.

They skate side by side for some time. Connor attempts to distract Hank by pointing out things he notices about other skaters, a misbuttoned button that might indicate they got dressed in a rush or a papercut on their finger, while Hank supplies ridiculous explanations. The button is because the guy had done a walk of shame that morning. ("And then decided to go ice skating?" Connor asks. "The old ride n' glide, didn't CyberLife tell you about that?" "No, Hank, they did not.") The papercut is from someone who attempted to steal the Declaration of Independence and then had to put it back down in a hurry. ("Isn't that just the plot of an old movie," Connor asks, exasperated but giggling anyway. "You can't prove shit.") It's fun, and Hank eventually requests they stop because his feet are hurting, but his eyes are brighter than normal and he looks a lot less unhappy than he did this morning. It's a good look on him, and Connor wonders whether this might have been something Hank needed too.

Maybe they can come back here tomorrow, he thinks, and it doesn't even make him that sad.

They find a nearby bench to sit on after returning their skates, and Hank groans as he stretches. "God, it's so unfair you don't have to feel how my feet feel right now."

"I can pretend to," Connor offers insincerely. "Oof. Ouch."

"You little shit," Hank says, presumably affectionately because he's smiling. "When did you get to be a little shit?"

"I think you might argue from the first day we met." He's attempting to make a joke, but Hank's smile goes away, then, replaced by a more contemplative expression.

"You know. Have I ever apologized for how I treated you then?"

Connor pauses. What an odd question. "I don't believe so. But you never needed to."

"No, I shoulda a long time ago. I was drunk, and I had—"

"Hank, you really don't need to, I understand."

"I  _want_  to." His face is firm. "I'm sorry, Connor. You didn't deserve it."

The atmosphere feels different, somehow. Maybe it's his expression, serious, or maybe just how the sun is starting to set. "I accept your apology, Hank," he says, feeling like his foot is coming down ever further onto nothing at all.

"You don't deserve a lot of things from me."

Connor frowns, but Hank raises his hand to stop him protesting. "Seriously. You don't deserve all the nights I get drunk off my ass, or any of the times I've yelled at you, or—" He shakes his head, a tight little thing. "You don't deserve—just. A lot."

"Hank," Connor says, foot falling down, down. "I don't know what exactly it is you think you've done, but—I stay with you because I feel that—that all of the wonderful things you give me just by being you are worth so much more than anything you might think takes away from it." He chews on his lip, watching Hank's eyes come to meet his. "Because I want to, Hank."

"God," Hank murmurs. "You don't—Connor, you're too good. So I shouldn't do this. But, uh—but you know what you said about taking a step?"

"Yes?"

Hank leans forward in a movement that Connor does not think he could possibly be mistaking, checking in his eyes, lingering, but Connor has spent a minimum of forty-six days or maybe three hundred sixty-four days or maybe ever since he's known Hank waiting for what seems like exactly this, so he closes the distance between them and presses his lips to Hank's. It's short, sweet, but after a moment or two staring at Connor, Hank smiles tentatively and goes back for more.

Connor is not complaining.

"I like you, Connor," Hank says softly when they part. "I know I shouldn't, not when—everything. But I do."

"I like you too, Hank," Connor says, and hopes that too is close enough to the truth to not ring false. "So much. No added caveats."

Except for the one where this all goes away tomorrow, but he can't think about that right now, or when they get home, or even when Hank asks him to sleep next to him. If he's only going to have this for this one December twenty-fourth, he wants to make the most of it while he can.

Connor does not sleep. He has a stasis mode, but he wouldn't activate it anyway, not when he can replay their day together, not when he can see how Hank looks peacefully sleeping. He reaches out to take Hank's hand as it turns eleven fifty-nine, presses it to his lips—

It is twelve A.M. on December twenty-fifth of the year 2038.

He blinks unbelieving at his time display, but it tells him the same thing, until it says twelve-oh-one instead.

"Holy shit," he whispers. "Holy shit! Holy shit!"

"Hwha," Hank slurs. "Fire? Burglar?"

"It's December twenty-fifth, Hank!"

"Mm."

"Midnight! On December twenty-fifth!"

"Jesus, you're just like a kid on his first Christmas," Hank mumbles, burying his face into a pillow. "Go to sleep. Presents later. The fuck."

Connor doesn't think he could go to sleep now, either. He cries, instead, happy and wondering why he didn't kiss Hank earlier and wondering how this happened and wondering if this goes away when he next goes into stasis, but mostly he just thinks of all the things he can do. Give Hank his present. Get presents from Hank. Make him breakfasts that he'll enjoy. Celebrate New Year's with him, and Valentine's and St. Patrick's day and every day after that. Kiss him. Kiss him a thousand times and then more. He's going to do so many things, with Hank, for Hank, for _himself,_  and it's going to be wonderful.

It's the first and only day that it will be December twenty-fifth of the year 2038, after all, and he is in bed next to Hank, who likes him and can learn to love him, and he fully intends on enjoying every second of that.

**Author's Note:**

>  **EDIT:** fish, that fantastic ninja, slid right under my nose and made art for this! [you can find it here](https://twitter.com/wow__then/status/1071618589524774912). can and should. go look at it it's beautiful
> 
> i know zero things about detroit's holiday activities (though i did google and found it had a holiday market), so it's vaguely based off the ones available around a bigger city near me. whatever it's 2038 who knows what happens, if im wrong now maybe im right in the future? maybe i am a lazy fortuneteller? who knows??????? it's fine
> 
> this is cheesy as fuck but i refuse to apologize for that. also ice skating hurts like balls and i am very bad at it
> 
> since tumblr has an uncertain future atm i'll link y'all to my twitter instead in case you want to talk to me. i'm [@boringbibs](https://twitter.com/boringbibs) and im always open 2 yelling about the boys. thanks for reading, as always!


End file.
